


That Holiday Spirit

by Guede



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: A.C. Milan, Bad Flirting, Christmas Shopping, Crack Treated Seriously, Dom/sub Undertones, Groping, Humor, Light Bondage, Love Potion/Spell, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: It was inevitable.  Everyone wants Zlatan.
Relationships: Zlatan Ibrahimović/Paolo Maldini/Alessandro Nesta
Kudos: 1





	That Holiday Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2007.

All Zlatan wanted to do was a little last-minute shopping. He’d gotten all his gifts in order, but while packing for the flight to Miami, Helena had discovered Maxi had outgrown his sandals. His little boy was shooting up like a weed…and as proud as Zlatan was, he did kind of wish that Maxi had put off the expanding feet till they’d been on the plane. He wasn’t that fond of the holiday rush, since it meant long lines even in the snooty upscale stores, random flashes as people took pictures—which he knew was part of the footballer deal; he just wished they wouldn’t do it in his eyes when he was trying to cross the street—and of course, since there were only so many shopping districts in Milan, the inevitable run-ins with AC Milan players.

He paused, scuffing his foot on the step, and then shrugged and went inside. If Ambrosini was going to have a problem, then he could have one. Zlatan had shoes to look at, and while he was getting Maxi a pair, he figured Helena could use some soft slippers, too. Her feet had been a bit swollen lately.

Ambrosini was examining the men’s side when Zlatan walked in, and looked up twice. The first time was because of the bell on the door, but the second time was from surprised recognition. Then Zlatan turned at a display of high heels and he couldn’t see the man’s face anymore. 

“Ibrahimović.”

Zlatan picked up a pair of backless clogs and felt the inside: way too thin on the padding. “Yeah?”

“Christmas shopping?” The shop-girl got there before Ambrosini, but then moved out of his way, apparently figuring it’d be rude to interrupt. He didn’t so much as look at her as he bore down on Zlatan, like he meant to start the derby right there.

“Nah. Done with that.” Then Zlatan remembered Helena would kill him if they couldn’t leave for Miami right away because he’d gotten into trouble and made himself look up. He didn’t hide his sigh. “What, you forgot somebody?”

Ambrosini stopped a few inches short and slightly to Zlatan’s left, his head turned as he stared intensely at something right behind Zlatan. “Maybe. Or maybe I never really thought about them before.”

Zlatan…frowned at the clog. And recalled that he wasn’t standing in front of any shoes, so Ambrosini would be staring at him.

And apparently, Ambrosini wasn’t any more subtle off the pitch than he was on it, because just then he grabbed Zlatan’s ass. A good, strong grope—full handful, not some dinky pinch. Not that that really made Zlatan think any better of him. “What the fuck!” Zlatan yelped, jumping back.

He threw the clog over his shoulder; the shop-girl gasped and went for it, and Ambrosini tried to move up to go for—Zlatan slapped the man’s hand away, then pivoted around him and went for the door. Thankfully, Ambrosini was also still damn slow.

* * *

When Zlatan finally stopped again, he was in some clothing store. He hadn’t meant to go haring down the street like some harried businessman after a taxi, but Ambrosini had been weirdly dogged and had kept it up even after people had started to turn and stare. But it looked like Zlatan had lost him at that last corner, thank God.

Zlatan fell back against the wall, slightly breathless, and then flopped his arm over a rack of swim trunks for good measure. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Huh?”

The hangers rattled and a couple fell as Zlatan started. Then he winced and turned around, and…well, it was Gattuso. Pain in the ass, and seriously, truly psychotic sometimes, but in a way Zlatan could respect. The guy _cared_ , no matter if it was some dumb friendly in the Middle East or the Champions League.

The man was also standing there in just his shirt and a pair of paisley-print swim trunks, with the tag sticking out to the side. Behind him was the dressing-room, and just past his right shoulder Zlatan could see one of the doors was ajar.

“I thought I recognized your voice, but I thought no way…” Gattuso went on. He’d seemed as surprised as Zlatan, but now he was relaxing, scratching at the back of his head. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he grinned. “You look like you just saw a ghost, Ibrahimović. Going to be okay for the derby?”

“Okay enough to kick you onto your plane,” Zlatan said after a moment. He grinned back. “Which way you going, anyway? East? West? I want to make sure I’m facing the right way.”

Gattuso looked at him, and for a couple seconds Zlatan thought that they’d have to get into a fight right there. But then the man smiled again, less toothy and kind of oddly amused. He half-turned, pulling up the tails of his shirt so Zlatan could see where the elastic band of his trunks was digging into his waist. “Okay, now you’re facing what you should be.”

“I’m facing…your ass.” Zlatan started getting that prickly sensation on the back of his neck. He glanced around for any clerks, or any people at all, and when he didn’t see a single soul, let go of the rack and stepped backwards.

“Does it look all right?” Gattuso looked over his shoulder with a weird little hitch of his head, like a bull trying out a come-hither glance. “What do you think?”

Zlatan looked for the exit. “Um.”

“You wanna try kicking it now?” Somehow Gattuso made that sound utterly serious. “Or I don’t know, maybe checking to see if it’s—”

And right then Zlatan ran. There were some things in life he didn’t need to know about, and one of them was what Gattuso thought made a good ass.

* * *

For somebody who wasn’t even dressed all the way, Gattuso was even harder to shake than Ambrosini had been. That last few yards had been a pretty rough patch of concrete and Gattuso hadn’t even had _shoes_ on.

“Zlatan?”

Muffled as the voice was, Zlatan still yelped and jerked to a stop. Then he frantically looked all around him, spinning about maybe five times before he finally caught himself on something. And happened to see Sandro staring at him through the large window of the chocolate shop before which he’d stopped. Sandro had his brows drawn down and his mouth pulled all tight and tiny, like he was regretting ever saying a thing. But when Zlatan moved, the other man abruptly smacked his hands against the glass. He winced, looking around at the odd stares he was getting, but then gestured for Zlatan to stay put.

A moment later he was on the sidewalk next to Zlatan, who was telling himself that surely Nesta wouldn’t be affected by whatever—whatever was going on. “What have you been doing? Your hair’s a mess, worse than a rat’s nest.”

Zlatan stopped telling himself stuff and stared at Sandro. “My _hair_?”

Sandro looked around again, then pointed towards a nearby alley. After they’d gone into it, he nodded firmly. “It looks like you just went through a windstorm. And you just…you nearly ran over that woman, or did you not even see her?”

“Oh. Whoops. I don’t think I did—”

And still nodding, Sandro had stepped through the space separating them and thrust both hands into Zlatan’s hair. He started combing the strands like Zlatan was some kid…except he was sort of letting his fingers drag over Zlatan’s temples and cheeks, and he was staring at Zlatan’s mouth with the sort of intensity that _usually_ meant he was about to try and rip off Zlatan’s socks with his cleats. “You look awful,” he repeated. “You obviously don’t know what detangler is, and you could use an introduction to gel, too…how your hair’s still so nice and shiny and soft and—”

Zlatan grabbed Sandro’s wrists to try and yank the man’s hands off him, Sandro jerked at Zlatan’s hair, Zlatan hissed in pain and Sandro kissed him. Hard. With tongue. With lots of tongue. With lots of tongue and some grinding and a leg hooking around the back of Zlatan’s left calf, like there wasn’t a really busy chocolate store right next door. He smelled like soap and sweat, with a warm earthiness from his leather coat, which despite the cold was making Zlatan a little overheated as Sandro pressed up against him.

And when Zlatan finally pried him off, he showed that pissiness really was the real him, and not just an act for when he was playing. By the time Zlatan scrambled out of that alley, he had stinging bites on his ear and hand, and knew a lot more about what Nesta thought about his nose than he honestly wanted to. God, Italians were weird.

* * *

After skidding around the corner, Zlatan paused just long enough to figure out how many openings he had before him. Then he lunged off at the one with the least people just as Sandro shouted at him—Zlatan winced, ducked his head and kept running. Fuck, but he wasn’t wearing the right shoes for this. And his feet were really beginning to hurt, and he was panting now, and goddamn it, but wasn’t Nesta tired yet? Usually he started getting all whiny to his teammates before this.

Speaking of, a shocked pedestrian dove out of the way and revealed the back of a head that Zlatan recognized. He grabbed the pole of a streetlamp and swung himself around that way, then skidded through the two (more) elderly side-kicks into Maldini.

Who flung up his hands and stumbled so they would’ve fallen into a trashcan if Zlatan didn’t have such a good sense of timing. He jammed his foot against a car tire, then used their momentum to drag Maldini up some steps and into a store.

Then he let go, and just in time since Maldini had been throwing an elbow, and a pretty professional-looking one at that: not quite as clean as he liked to make out. He whirled around, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong with them?” Zlatan hissed. He could hear Sandro again, and the man was maybe thirty seconds away. “What’s wrong with your team? They’re all trying to grab my ass!”

Maldini froze, mouth open, hands gripping the back of a low sofa. His brows went down, then up. Then he closed his mouth and straightened just as Sandro came pounding in, _his_ hair mostly a wild snarl in front of his eyes.

“There you are. You idiot, you nearly—”

“Sandro.” It took a moment for Maldini to go on, apparently because Zlatan had knocked most of the breath from him. But he turned and looked at Nesta like he didn’t expect the man to even challenge him. “What are you doing? Are you bothering him?”

Sandro blinked a couple times. His coat was half-off one shoulder and his fingers were folded white-knuckled tight over the edge of his cuffs. He breathed in heavy but quick pants—and then he tossed back his head and sniffed. “He’s been asking for it.”

“I was not! I wasn’t even looking for you! I’m just shoe-shopping!”

Maldini raised an eyebrow. He was still looking at Sandro.

For about half a minute Sandro looked right back, but then his shoulders slumped. He tugged at his coat, glancing down and then almost pleadingly up. “Paolo…”

Maldini crossed his arms over his chest and tightened his lips a bit. He looked a little less like the supermodel and more like the uncompromising captain today, all in black with the faintly military style of his leather jacket. Actually, he almost looked like somebody who’d make Zlatan stop and think for a second.

After a little more helpless staring, Sandro abruptly threw up his hands. He muttered a bit, stamping in place, and then turned around. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to forget,” he snapped at Zlatan, shooting back a last smoldering look as he stalked out.

“Yeah, whatever.” But Zlatan was still slumping down in relief on the sofa. He let his head come to rest on the top, then glanced towards the window. Which was completely blocked by some drapes and mannequins, and it looked like the clerk had stepped out for a moment as well, so Zlatan closed his eyes and heaved out a gigantic breath. “Jesus.”

“Sorry about that.” Shoes shuffled around the sofa, then stopped so Maldini’s voice came from right above Zlatan. “Are you all right?”

Zlatan took a couple more breaths. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just—what the hell was that? It wasn’t just Nesta—there was Ambrosini and Gattuso too…and what, you all out on a group shopping trip?”

“I didn’t realize Ambro was out too,” Maldini said, voice warming slightly in amusement. When Zlatan opened his eyes, the other man was fussing with his clothes. He glanced back as he pulled at the black sweater he was wearing beneath his coat, then let go so the wool snapped to shape against his stomach, hinting at the muscle under it. “What happened? Actually, do you mind if I sit down? You took me by surprise.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Sorry,” Zlatan muttered, sitting up a bit. He pulled together his knees so Maldini could get by his feet to the other end of the couch.

Maldini looked at that, then at Zlatan. He pulled at his nose before idly brushing at his forelock. “I don’t really like how that end looks. Can I just sit here?”

It took a second. A little because Zlatan was well and truly freaked out now, a little because he had to look down at himself to realize what Maldini meant. But mostly because it was—it was _Maldini_ , who even now was all cool and poised and calm, his eyes gently amused and his stance relaxed. “What? That’s my lap.”

“I know. Can I sit on it?” Maldini asked.

Zlatan knocked something over as he jumped the sofa. He started for the front, but then remembered Nesta and reversed directions. Along the way Maldini—not nearly so calm now—got hold of Zlatan’s arm, and managed to hang on all the way into some narrow hallway and okay, well, Zlatan was really desperate. He shoved Maldini up against the wall, kissed him, and while the other man was going limp—shit, it really had gotten to him too—made his getaway.

* * *

The shoes began to move away and Zlatan almost let out a breath. But then they came back, and then the trouser-bottoms sagged slightly as Pirlo bent down to stare under the table. “Ibrahimović?” he said uncertainly.

“Go away!” Zlatan wrenched at the bars over his head, then let go and tried to kick his way out the other end, only to bang his head and back as he was reminded that that side was blocked off by a bunch of shelves. “I don’t want to fuck you, I don’t want to know what you look like in swim trunks, I don’t want you in my fucking _lap_.”

Pirlo squatted there, blinking slowly. “Well, I’m…not particularly interested in any of those either.”

They stared at each other for a couple minutes.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Zlatan hissed. Something clattered outside and he froze, but the voices were way too high-pitched. Thank God. He _thought_ he’d lost Maldini, but for all he knew Maldini had some network of informers that...Zlatan scrubbed hard at his head and told himself he might be freaked out, but he wasn’t going crazy, damn it. “Or grab my ass, or compliment my pecs, or really, anything that’s flirting?”

“Not really. Why are you asking?” Pirlo asked. He looked like he meant it.

“Seriously?” Zlatan still gave Pirlo a hard stare, but the other man just looked faintly quizzical. “Oh, thank _God_. Your teammates have gone nuts.”

More blinking. Apparently it wasn’t just eyebags that made Pirlo look like he needed a shot of espresso injected into him all the time. “My teammates...have been flirting with you?”

“Ambrosini _goosed_ me. Gattuso invited me to check out the fit of his swim trunks—” Pirlo’s brows twitched “--Nesta tried to suck my tongue out of my mouth, and your fucking _captain_ asked to sit on my lap!” Okay. Maybe Zlatan was getting hysterical. Hysterical was okay. Everybody got hysterical once in a while. Even Zlatan Ibrahimović did.

Pirlo considered this. “Have you run into Ricky or...Clarence?” He rubbed at his chin, then raised his eyebrow at whatever Zlatan’s face was doing. “I’m just wondering if it’s only the Italians. Or—oh, have you run into Marco recently? Is it just our team?”

“No! No, and I’m not going to try just to figure out if it’s—it’s—what the _hell_ is it?” It did seem like Pirlo wasn’t affected, or at least wasn’t the frantic lunging type, so Zlatan chanced getting out from under the clothes display. Then he started to get to his feet, but that was a really familiar brown head going by the window and shit. Well, he could pay for all those shirts he’d just pulled on top of himself. If they didn’t fit, that was what younger siblings were for. “Why are you so calm? Are you sure you don’t want to fuck me? You’re not just being smart and waiting your time?”

For a couple seconds Pirlo gazed at him like a normal person probably would when confronted with pure bizarreness. Then he shrugged. “Well, I’m a bit curious about what hairgel you use, since your hair looks good for somebody who’s been through what you say you have. But otherwise no, I’m not interested in you. You know what, I think I’ve got an idea. Let me go call somebody.”

“Who?” Zlatan just about screamed.

* * *

*Zlatan.* Luís took a deep breath. *My leg is broken.*

“It is not! Your cast is off!”

*Okay, fine, it _was_ broken. Anyway, the point is that I’m not in any shape to jump out and go running around Milan to watch Maldini and the rest—*

Pirlo finished hanging his coat on the wall-peg, then sat down across from Zlatan in the booth. He adjusted the phone, which was on speaker, so he’d be heard. “I think he wants them to stop, actually. Sorry about calling, but the only thing that remotely sounds like this was when you joined Inter...”

*Oh. Right.* Long pause. Grunting. *All right, hang on, let me get my coat—Andrea? _Is_ Clarence around? We could probably use him.*

“Are you sure he’s—”

*He’ll be fine. He’s gone through this more than I have, he’s immune. Actually, you’d think Maldini would be, too...never mind. Zlatan, try not to hyperventilate so much. I think they can track your panic. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.*

There was a beep, and then Pirlo reached over to turn off the phone. He slipped it into his pocket, then looked up; Zlatan twitched hard, but it turned out to just be the waitress with their coffee. Plain black for Pirlo, sweetened with amaretto for Zlatan. Actually, he probably should’ve asked for an Irish coffee. Normally he wasn’t into that, but he sort of needed a good kick.

“He makes this sound like a zombie movie,” he finally mumbled, slurping his coffee. Then he stared hard at Pirlo over the lip of his mug. “And what’d you mean, it sounds like what happened to him?”

“Well, I wasn’t there so I only heard the rumors, but apparently your Argentine teammates mobbed Figo when he first came to Milan.” Pirlo glanced down at the plate of biscotti the waitress had left by his arm, then picked up a piece. He stirred it twice in his coffee, then munched carefully at the dripping end. “Clarence told me about that, come to think of it.”

Zlatan drank more coffee. The muscles in his legs were finally starting to slacken from their adrenaline-tensed coils. “Why are you so calm? Doesn’t it worry you a little that even Maldini’s trying to get into my pants?”

“Well, I’m from Brescia. We’re a calm people. Anyway, anything weird that happens doesn’t carry onto the pitch. And you get used to it,” Pirlo said. Despite his care, a chunk of biscotti fell off into his coffee. He frowned as he grabbed his napkin and hastily dabbed at a couple drops that’d splashed onto his cuff. “So what happened with Rino?”

“I ran into him in a dressing room and he wanted me to see how his swim trunks fit him.” A shudder went through Zlatan, and he didn’t think it made him look wimpy or chicken at all, frankly.

Then he looked up, and found Pirlo staring at him. The other man still looked calm, but there was something about the way he was settling into the shadows that made Zlatan’s nerves prickle. “Did you?”

“Hell, no. I ran,” Zlatan said.

Pirlo blinked, losing that odd air of…menace. It’d been actual menace. “Okay,” he said, and ate more of his biscotti. He wiped some crumbs off his mouth, then looked up. “Oh, hi, Clarence.”

* * *

“It’s just a Milan thing? Are you kidding me?” Zlatan sputtered.

Luís and Clarence stopped exchanging anecdotes to give him the same slightly exasperated look, while Pirlo continued messing about with the…the…Clarence said it was a tranquilizer gun. Harmless, only would put them out for a couple minutes. Zlatan just had made a note not to piss Clarence off, right next to the one to _seriously_ get to know the guy better.

“Ibra, you want the real explanation or you want me to make them stop jumping you?” Luís asked. Then he grimaced and shifted his weight against the car, rubbing at his knee—something about six weeks of not itching driving him insane.

“Okay, never mind.” Zlatan could always bug it out of Luís later, maybe when they were flying to Liverpool or something like that.

Clarence looked at Luís, then over his shoulder. He squinted. “I think that’s Ambro—Zlatan?”

Everybody looked at him again, and Zlatan stared right back. “Look, the guy grabbed my ass, okay? I think I have a right to be jumpy.”

“Just calm down, all right? Otherwise this’ll take forever,” Luís said. He reached around behind himself, then twisted forward again, that jar of dirt he said was from the San Siro in his hands. After unscrewing the lid, he held it out towards Clarence, who poured in a whole bottle of vodka.

The stuff was so strong that Zlatan couldn’t help wrinkling up his nose. Clarence caught him at it, but just clapped a hand to his shoulder. “That’s good! That means it should bring them to their senses right away. The smell of the San Siro will remind them who they are.”

By then Ambrosini was at fifteen yards and gaining, since he’d spotted Zlatan. It took a lot of effort for Zlatan not to hunch down behind Clarence. And then he discovered that Clarence and Luís weren’t even there anymore, and it was just him standing in the middle of the empty street. He nearly ran off right then, but spotted something behind the car and _just_ held his position. “Jesus. Pirlo, don’t—”

“I’m not going to shoot you.” Pirlo hefted the tranq gun onto the hood of the car, then delicately adjusted the direction of the muzzle. He looked weirdly comfortable like that. “Just leave Rino alone.”

Zlatan blinked. Actually…Pirlo kind of reminded him of Henke, except Pirlo blended even more into the background.

“Ibrahimović!” Ambrosini hollered. He leaped, Zlatan shut his eyes and braced himself—

\--there was a little _pfft_ sound and then Ambrosini collapsed on him, hands sweeping down Zlatan’s back and for a moment Zlatan really, seriously was going to fling the other man off and make a break for it. But then he noticed the hands weren’t grabbing, looked down to see Ambrosini’s glazed-over eyes…and grinned. “Serves you right.”

“Hurry up and turn his head—I can hear Sandro!” Clarence yelped. He scurried out from his hiding place in a nearby alley, then held the jar to Ambrosini’s nose while Luís and Zlatan tilted the man. “Ah…ah, oh, there we go. Hi, Ambro. Listen, just come over and sit with me awhile, okay? It’s been Milan-ish again.”

“‘Milan-ish’?” Zlatan blinked again. Too. Weird. God, he couldn’t wait to go on vacation.

* * *

Sandro mumbled something through the hand he had over his face.

Zlatan rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers on his knees. “It took _two_ darts to put you down. I have _scratches_ through my _shirt_.”

The hand moved. One baleful eye glowered out at Zlatan, just above a flaming-red cheek. “I’m _sorry_.”

Ambrosini had been a lot more graceful about it, even though he’d been hurrying like hell to apologize and get away between Sandro and Gattuso. He’d seemed so utterly torn up over the mess that Zlatan had just let him go, but the others…well, Zlatan had had one hell of an afternoon. And now the shops were closed and he hadn’t even gotten his shoes.

Gattuso hadn’t really apologized either. He’d just been sitting there for the past ten minutes, his head between his knees while Pirlo rubbed his back and whispered soothingly to him, but Zlatan was starting to think he’d just let him go, too. And then Pirlo looked up, and Zlatan remembered the scarily efficient way Pirlo had reloaded, aimed, and put that second dart right next to the first in Sandro’s left buttock. “Hey, Gattuso. It’s okay, it was just really…um, look, don’t take this personally, but I just want to pretend it never happened. Okay?”

Mumble mumble as Gattuso nodded and got up without ever looking at Zlatan. Or looking, period: he stumbled over the rug and fell into Pirlo, who absorbed his weight without so much as a sway. Pirlo put his arm over Gattuso’s shoulders as the two of them left.

“I need a drink,” Sandro abruptly said. He slapped his hands on his knees, waited for Zlatan to object, and then got up while Zlatan was in the middle of that.

And then it was Zlatan and Maldini, since Luís and Clarence had gotten the hell out of there as soon as they could. Probably so they could snicker some more, and Zlatan seriously needed to corner Luís for a good, long talk. The man had been holding out on him.

“I’m truly sorry. Both for my behavior and for that of my teammates,” Maldini finally said. He looked pained. He kept pressing his fingertips into the little dent between his eyebrows. “I know that’s not really sufficient to make up for it…so if there’s something you’d like me to do, please ask.”

“It was pretty damn bad.” Zlatan jiggled his leg, then sat up so he could rest one elbow on the chair-arm. “I think you shocked off a couple years of my life all by yourself. My _lap_.”

Maldini _blushed_. And hard, too, given how tanned he was. He rubbed his hands together. “Sorry. It’s just…Milan.”

“So you really don’t want to sit on my knee?” Zlatan asked. He cocked his head, looking at the way that blush went down into Maldini’s turtleneck. “You know, I’m still having a hard time believing that. It just—it was so freaky because you looked like you meant it.”

After a moment, Maldini lifted his head so he could slant a look at Zlatan, sort of assessing and wary at the same time. He ground the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other, then got up and came over. Once he was next to Zlatan, he just stood there, staring down at Zlatan.

Then he took a deep breath, pulled his coat out of the way, and gingerly seated himself on Zlatan’s left knee. “Do I look like I mean it now?”

His own knees were trembling because he was barely putting any weight on Zlatan. So Zlatan, being all charitable with the season, reached out and hooked a finger through Maldini’s belt. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth leather while Maldini’s eyebrows jumped, then yanked hard, pulling Maldini up his leg so the other man barely caught himself with two hands on Zlatan’s chest. Maldini’s ass slipped off his thigh so the man dropped a bit between Zlatan’s legs before Zlatan swung in his other knee to brace Maldini from the back. He put his free hand against Maldini’s waist as well, letting his fingers slide up beneath the man’s coat.

After a moment, Maldini pushed on Zlatan’s chest so he wasn’t not-breathing on Zlatan’s face. He pursed his lips a few times, his eyes moving back and forth over Zlatan’s face.

“You were being all dainty and ridiculous,” Zlatan told him. “Now, this is sitting on my lap.”

Sharp inhale. Those brows were still up, but the eyes beneath them had gone a little dark. “What _was_ wrong with earlier, then?”

“Okay, I lied. The weird thing was that you didn’t look like you meant it back then. And if somebody’s gonna sit on me, I want them to.” Zlatan slipped his finger further beneath the belt, till the tip had come out the other side. “So do you? Paolo?”

It took a couple more seconds for the other man to lose that lofty I-am-Milan air. He gave himself a slight shake that Zlatan wasn’t too sure Paolo had noticed, then looked down. Put one hand on Zlatan’s knee and deliberately adjusted himself so he was more comfortable, sliding back so his ass and the upper part of his thighs was on Zlatan’s lap. His mouth quirked. “It’s nice.”

“ _Nice_.” Zlatan ran his finger around till it was next to the buckle. He tapped that, looking at Paolo, and then undid it and slowly pulled the belt free of its loops. He grinned at the way Paolo’s eyes followed the length of leather. “That’s worse than you coming on to me like a drunken Catholic schoolgirl on the last day of school. You were fucking _ridiculous_.”

“Sorry,” Paolo said. He ran his tongue over his lower lip.

His breath hitched a bit when Zlatan used that hand on his waist to push him forward, hard enough so that he had to slam the heels of his hands into Zlatan’s chest again. Then he stopped breathing completely when Zlatan grabbed his right wrist, using the hand holding the belt so that was pushed up next to his skin. Paolo looked at the belt dangling down, then at Zlatan. His eyebrow went up again. “Can I do something for you?”

So did Zlatan’s. “Take off your coat.”

Long, slow breath. Then Paolo shrugged, like he didn’t care, and moved his shoulder out of his coat that way. He wriggled a bit to get the rest of his arm out, then flopped his coat around so it was only hanging from the wrist Zlatan held. Zlatan rippled his fingers, always keeping two circled around Paolo’s wrist, as he let the coat slide off the rest of the way.

“You like that sweater?” Zlatan asked.

Paolo thought about it, then pressed his lips together as he slid his free hand under the hem. He glanced at Zlatan, then pulled the sweater up and over his head in one liquid motion. Getting his arm out of the sleeve was a little more difficult, but he still managed it looking all unruffled. Even his hair fell back into place, when it should’ve been frizzing up like Sandro’s.

He wasn’t wearing anything under the sweater, so after Zlatan let that drop to the floor, it was just Paolo seated on his thighs, presenting the smooth, golden muscles of his chest and belly. For a couple seconds Zlatan enjoyed the view.

Then he flicked his hand around, and had a loop of the belt circling Paolo’s wrist in place of his fingers. He used it to pull Paolo forward a bit, but then batted away Paolo’s other hand when the other man tried to bring that up. Getting the message, Paolo twisted around so Zlatan could strap his wrists behind his back; Zlatan let his fingers linger afterward, stroking the insides of Paolo’s forearms, so Paolo’s head dropped a little.

It came back up when Zlatan grabbed Paolo by the waist, but he had Paolo down lying on him before the other man could do anything. He moved his head so his chin wasn’t bumping into Paolo’s forehead, then draped an arm over Paolo’s waist, just tickling Paolo’s stomach as the muscles flexed.

Sandro walked back in right then. He’d been saying something along the way, like usual, but when he saw them he stopped with his mouth hanging open. Paolo went stiff, then slackened just a little. He put his head back on Zlatan’s shoulder, trying to look like this was normal. Still. Honestly, sometimes Zlatan thought Paolo was the most fucked-up of all of them.

“Two fucking darts,” Zlatan said. He rubbed his hand over and down Paolo’s belly, ignoring the sudden twist of the other man, the half-hissed protest. His fingers flowed firmly over Paolo’s cock, then shaped it against the cloth of Paolo’s trousers while the man ducked his head, grinding out the rest of his objection as little hitches of breath. Paolo’s hands strained against Zlatan’s side. “You don’t come at me that hard even when you’re so mad you’re screaming that you’re going to kick in my head.”

“I said I was sorry,” Sandro muttered after a moment. Slow, hesitant, clearly distracted. He was looking at Zlatan’s hand working over Paolo’s growing erection. “What?”

Zlatan looked back. “And what was that, back in the store?” He stopped petting Paolo so the other man arched, trying to force the pressure; Zlatan moved his hand back to Paolo’s belly and pushed him down. Then he trailed his fingers up to tease at one nipple, flicking his thumbnail against it till it was hard as the press of Paolo’s brow against the side of his jaw. “Between you two? You just backed off.”

“He’s my captain,” Sandro said, _slightly_ sarcastic. He looked down as Paolo raised his head, and then even further, at Zlatan’s feet. His hand absently pushed at his thigh, like he had an itch higher up he couldn’t quite bring himself to scratch. “I just—had to, all right? Thought you’d be glad about that, if you minded so much.”

“Hey, I never _mind_ with you. I just wonder.” Right on the edge of Zlatan’s vision, he could see Paolo trying to crane to stare at him, probably to tell him to shut the fuck up—he raked his nails down Paolo’s chest, then ground his hand against the other man’s cock before Paolo had even finished hissing. Slow and steady, measuring the shortening pauses between the jerks of Paolo’s hands into his ribs, and when Paolo just gave up and dug into Zlatan with his nails, Zlatan stopped.

Paolo actually started to say something there, but Zlatan reached around with both hands. Had the man’s fly open in one second, had the trousers and underwear down in the next, and then he just ran his hands up and down the insides of Paolo’s thighs as Sandro watched, his eyes burning now.

“You ever wonder?” Zlatan added.

Sandro jerked his head up, stared at Zlatan. Then down, and then suddenly, like water spilling, he was down on his knees between Zlatan’s legs, Paolo’s legs. “Stop—”

“No.” Zlatan bent his head and licked at the side of Paolo’s neck, then pushed his grin into the skin when Paolo let out a ragged gasp. He felt Sandro’s hair against his knuckles and shoved the man’s head back, then hooked his fingers so he caught a few strands. Tugged on them to get Sandro’s attention. “Just the thighs.”

Paolo sucked in his breath and Zlatan pressed his mouth to the man’s temple, just for a second. Then he lifted his chin so he could see that flash in Sandro’s eyes, the little hesitation just before Sandro turned his head, away from Paolo’s prick. His eyes half-closed, and for a moment he looked almost as pained as Paolo did—Paolo’s teeth were stuck so far into his lower lip that the flesh beneath them was whitening.

Then Sandro parted his lips. He licked at them, once all around, and then leaned forward to lay the flat of his tongue against one thigh. Zlatan didn’t tell him to hold still like that; Sandro did that himself, and when Paolo finally twisted, too impatient, Sandro’s eyes flew to Paolo’s face. The two of them looked at each other, that same weird tension from the store singing between them…and then Sandro lowered his lashes. Demurely licked up Paolo’s thigh while Paolo abruptly jammed his face into the side of Zlatan’s throat. Suddenly Paolo was licking up a storm, sucking and kissing at Zlatan’s neck, rolling his hips so his stomach bent up into the lazy run of Zlatan’s fingers.

Zlatan still had his other hand in Sandro’s hair, and he slid those fingers further into the silky strands, cradling the man’s head. Sandro paused again, pressed back, and then he was putting his hands on Paolo’s knees, tipping his head so he could lave at Paolo’s thigh, long firm strokes with his tongue. He always pulled up short of Paolo’s cock, heavy and reddened as it was; sometimes he even bumped it with his head and Paolo would make a strangled noise. Then Sandro’s shoulders would jump, but he’d just go back to licking.

“Please,” Paolo eventually rasped, his lips teasing at Zlatan’s ear. He scratched with his nails at Zlatan’s ribs, pushing down so Zlatan could feel the way he was stressing that belt.

“Aren’t you hot?” Zlatan said to Sandro.

The other man looked up, then snorted and bent his head so his forehead was resting on Paolo’s thigh. He unzipped his coat and shrugged it off, then put his hands to the collar of his shirt. Thought about it, glancing at Zlatan, and then moved his hands lower, to his waist. He twisted like a snake out of his jeans. Left his shoes and socks behind as well, almost in the same motion, and Zlatan pulled on his hair so he came crawling up Paolo, his long tanned legs rubbing against Zlatan’s shins.

He was looking at Zlatan till the very end, when he was level with Paolo and then he bit his lip, his gaze wavering. Paolo moved his head against Zlatan’s neck, catching and then holding Sandro’s eyes with nothing but his own, and then Sandro cupped the other man’s face in his hands and kissed him. Long, slow. Not for Zlatan’s benefit, but it was right in front of him so he watched, idly tickling his fingers across Paolo’s hip.

“You want to fuck him?” Zlatan finally asked.

Sandro raised his head—not quite at a jerk, but sharply enough. And Paolo twisted around as well, so both of them were looking at him. Paolo’s hands flexed against Zlatan’s stomach, then slowly relaxed, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly at Zlatan’s shirt.

“No.” Quick flick of the tongue over his lip, and then Sandro gave Zlatan another kiss. Harder than the one Paolo had gotten, but thoughtful about it, remembering what he liked, and not just a rush like the one in the alley. Then he drew back, something flickering in the backs of his eyes. “But I want to watch you fuck him.”

Paolo jerked, then sank back, his head going up so he could lick at the underside of Zlatan’s chin. Zlatan shifted up, then bent down—his neck gave him hell about it, but he just managed to touch his lips to Paolo’s. Then he sat back and laughed. “Okay.”

* * *

“I still don’t have those shoes,” Zlatan sighed. “Damn it.”

The head on his chest moved. But Sandro just resettled himself, fingers sluggishly running back and forth over one of Zlatan’s ribs. Paolo shifted a moment later, but pushed himself all the way up to put an arm over Zlatan’s breast and then rest his chin on it. He frowned and stiffened when Zlatan dropped a hand to cup his buttock, but then let Zlatan squeeze that without any protest. “What size does he wear? I think we’ve still got boxes of baby shoes—never worn.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “You know, you get a little carried away and never realize they’ll grow too fast to use all of them…”

“Kind of, now.” Zlatan absently trailed his fingers up behind Paolo’s balls, then rubbed them further back till Paolo was squirming a bit; the man was still a bit stretched from Zlatan’s cock, and Sandro’s tongue. “They some weird Gucci thing?”

Sandro snorted, then lifted his head so he could turn it and lay the other cheek against Zlatan. Paolo just shook his head, looking down at Zlatan with an odd expression on his face.

“You ran,” he finally said. He pushed his arm against his chin. “Thank you.”

“I know what you look like when you’re flirting,” Zlatan muttered. He lifted his head when he felt Sandro moving, really moving, and then stared curiously as the other man joined Paolo in the strange looks. “I’m not some fucking-- _Milan_ thing.”

After a moment, Sandro draped himself over Zlatan again, this time with his head tucked right under Zlatan’s chin. He let out a little contented sound, sort of whistling, when Zlatan stroked the back of his leg. “No, you’re not. Thank God.”

Paolo looked at him. Then he leaned down and kissed the point of Sandro’s shoulderblade; Sandro’s lashes fluttered against Zlatan’s neck, and as Paolo pushed up, Sandro put out a hand and ghosted his fingers over Paolo’s arm, over that barbed-line tattoo ringing it. Paolo moved his arm into the touch as he bent over Zlatan, three fingers lightly lying against Zlatan’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he said again, and kissed Zlatan like Zlatan was Sandro. He sat back, letting Zlatan play with the sweaty waves at his temple. “And I am sorry about that, earlier. And…” his eyes sparked, the line of his mouth twitched “…I do like sitting on your knee.”

Sandro made some muffled comment about Santa, so Zlatan flicked a finger at the back of his neck. Then he arched, popped a bone in his back, and slumped onto the floor. “Yeah? Just wait till we get to Miami. Then we’ll see about _knees_.”


End file.
